


Barracuda

by BoxWineConfessions



Series: NSFW Yurio Week 2017 [4]
Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Emotionally Illiterate Victor and Yuri, Hate fucking, M/M, Pre-Canon, Shower Sex, Slapping, depressed victor, post sochi gpf
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-15
Updated: 2017-09-15
Packaged: 2018-12-30 06:09:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,215
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12102453
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BoxWineConfessions/pseuds/BoxWineConfessions
Summary: Yuri wants to get some kind of reaction. Any kind of reaction. He’s the one that ground his ass on Victor’s dick in a crowded train. He’s the one that sucked Victor off one lazy afternoon after practice. He’s the one who’s been on pins and fucking needles since Sochi, watching as something thick and ugly loomed over Victor, something that he couldn’t divert or control.Written For NSFW Yurio Week 2017





	Barracuda

**Author's Note:**

  * For [voslen](https://archiveofourown.org/users/voslen/gifts).



“You should invite me over,” Yuri says as he stuffs his clothes into his duffel bag. His dirty underwear spill out and for a moment he feels embarrassed. He scrambles for the leopard print fabric, but then he remembers he has nothing to hide. He’s plucked his own underwear out from Victor’s. Victor has a washer and drier in his apartment even though he sends almost everything out for dry cleaning. “You should order us takeout.”

Victor doesn't say anything at first. He's been doing that lately. Like it takes longer for him to mull over whatever it is that's just been said. The lull in conversation makes his chest tighten with anxiety. What is it that Victor wants to say before he actually says whatever garbage spews out of his mouth.

No one else seems to notice or care, and he wonders what the fuck is wrong with them.

Victor cups his chin with his closed fist for a moment. Then his mouth pulls into a thin barely there curve of the mouth. “I suppose that might be nice. Mediterranean?”

“I'd wanted fried wontons,” Yuri doesn't want wontons. He wants to drown in tahini dressing. He wants to get some kind of reaction. Any kind of reaction that can compare to the low haunting laugh and the promise Victor made “hold off on doing quads. I'll choreograph your senior debut.”

“What if we ordered Chinese next time?” Victor zips up his track suit and smooths down the front. Yuri has to force himself to tear his eyes off of his long graceful fingers.

Victor holds the locker room door open for Yuri and Yuri walks through it. “You make it sound like you’ll actually invite me next time.” Before Sochi meant dinner at least once a week, if not more. After Sochi, it’s been nothing.

Victor swipes his metro card twice so that Yuri doesn't have to pay. They board the train car and Yuri immediately takes two straps between his hands and swings back and forth on them. His feet dangle awkwardly as he tries to hold himself up for as long as possible. The train clicks by on the tracks and Yuri can feel the burn of scrutiny of adult eyes upon him. Like he should stop, but they won't say anything since he boarded the train with Victor. He was Victor’s responsibility.

Which was fucking hilarious cause if anything Victor was his responsibility.

“Your jumps left a great deal to be desired,” Victor says as he's kicking his heels up so high that the sole of his sneakers hit against the glass window. “You keep flinching and moving your arms really strangely.” Victor mimics his motions on ice down the isle of the train car. More eyes are upon them as Victor dances down the train car.

He wants to look every single one in the eye and shout, “see? I’m the one that looks out for him!”

“Maybe,” Victor calls from the other end of the car. The train pulls into a station, and Victor has to brace himself on one of the aluminum polls that dot the center of the train cars. In a split second he smiles at Yuri. “Maybe you should just hold your arms up instead of pulling them in.”

“That’s the dumbest fucking thing I’ve ever heard.” That’s the best thing he’s ever heard. His body always screams at him to do that anyway, even if it throws him further off balance and makes going into the step sequence harder.

“Maybe we should get Chinese.” Victor says as he moves back up the train car and joins Yuri.

Victor grabs onto the same strap that Yuri’s hand is looped into. His long lean body slumps for a moment, and he sways with the gentle jostling of the train.

Yuri stops kicking at the windows.

* * *

Yuri eats voraciously, as if it were his last meal. He doesn’t even bother with the disposable chopsticks. He just grabs one of the forks made from real silver and embossed with ivy leaves from the cupboard and shovels the fried rice in.

Victor always orders a lot of food whenever they go out. A few appetizers, and a few different things so that they can have a little of each. Yuri likes that. It’s very different from counting change with grandpa and then running to the Teremok down the block.

“Do you even taste it that way Yura?” Victor asks with his chopsticks clasped neatly in his hand. They’re completely clean and untouched by any of the sticky sauces that coat the food. His plate is nearly empty too. Only few mouthfuls of food rest upon his plate.

That always pisses him off. The way Victor puts a little food on his plate at a time, making him constantly think about whether or not he’s had too much, whether he can go for seconds or thirds, or if Victor will want more.

Yuri grabs his drink from the table, takes a long draught, and slams it back down onto the table. “Have you even tasted anything?”  Yuri grabs one of the containers, and piles more food onto Victor’s plate before eating the rest straight out of the container.

Through large mouthfuls of food, Yuri starts talking. He doesn’t like it when things are this quiet. He doesn’t like it when he’s reminded there’s a problem that he cannot fix. “What’s that choreography you’re working on?”

Victor takes a morsel of food between his chopsticks, looks at it thoughtfully, and rests it on his lips briefly before chewing slowly. Yuri watches the movements of his jaw, and the way the muscles in his neck constrict as he swallows.

Yuri forgets to chew his own food for a moment, and coughs on the lump in his throat.

Without a word, Victor rises. He can hear the clinking of glass in the next room, then Victor brings him another bottle of mineral water. He doesn’t particularly like the taste, but he reaches for it anyway. It’s all Victor keeps around unless he brings coke. Victor hasn’t been inviting him around, and so there’s no coke to drink.

Victor sits back at the table. His movements are slow, but graceful as if time slows down and his actions pour from his body like molasses from a jar. “Nothing really,” he says pushing his hair away from his face.

“Is it for my routine next season?”

Victor’s eyes fall to the side suggesting that he hasn’t so much as thought about it.

It’s okay because Yuri has lots of ideas. “I want to start out with a quad combination. It’s not enough that I can do a quad. I want to do a quad with something else. Then, a triple axel of the back counter,” he’s never actually landed one like that, but it would make his points so high.

“Can you land that?” Victor rests his chopsticks on the rim of the plate, and taps his mouth with his forefinger. Nothing. Nothing quite makes Yuri’s blood boil more. “I don’t believe I’ve ever seen you land that in practice. It’s quite difficult.” Victor rests his chopsticks back between his fingers. He pinches a piece of shrimp from the container in Yuri’s hands. Victor’s voice is acerbic and detached. “It requires much more work than you’re putting in.”

* * *

Before Sochi, _after_ dinner meant it was time to take a shower. Showering after dinner went beyond standing underneath the water in the locker room, and making sure your body met the bare minimum of acceptability. It meant the feeling of long fingers twisting through his blonde hair. It meant having Victor rub conditioner that he could never afford into his roots.

It meant large hands draped over his body tweaking his nipples until they stung under the warm stream of water. It meant the feeling of fingers augmented by the warm constant stream of water over his body. It meant a firm hand on his hip, and the teasing press of Victor’s cock at his ass.

It meant Victor taking him between his thumb and forefinger, and teasing his cock until he saw stars. It meant teetering on the tips of his toes, mumbling all sorts of nonsense, “Vitya please.” It meant Victor pulling away from him, and only touching him after the feeling of white hot urgency faded away.

It meant more nipple pinches, a hand tugging at the skin of his sac, or pressure but never entry at his hole. Only when Yuri was crying out again would his hand return to his cock.

It meant that he only got to cum after the water ran cold.

It meant sinking to his knees still sopping wet on the cold tile floors until he made Victor get a memory foam bathmat.

Tonight, after dinner means Victor sinking into his brushed suede sofa. It means that he turns on the television, but doesn’t bother to so much as look at it. Victor first tries to read from a book that rests on the end table, but Yuri’s seen it sit there for months before Sochi. Victor then opts for picking up his phone. Yuri watches from the corner of his eye as he scrolls through Twitter first, and then Instagram.

Yuri’s eyes travel all over the living room, from the television mounted to the wall, to the glass coffee table laden with books that will never be read, to the big slobbery dog that sits between them. Makkachin rests her head in Victor’s lap, and Yuri wants to know what’s so great about some stupid dog anyway?

Whatever. After dinner meant that it was time to shower. So, they were going to fucking shower.

Yuri stands up, and takes a quick step away from the sofa. His clothes rustle against the suede. His movement makes the dog, but not Victor turn to look at him. Fuck.

“I’m going to take a shower,” Yuri does his best to sound confidant, smooth. Except that his voice cracks and his mouth feels dry. Yuri’s hands shake as he peels away his shirt. Wherever Victor’s eyes settle for too long, it feels like whenever skin brushes against ice during a fall. Barely there at first, and then completely numbing as it lingers.

Victor is finally looking. Good.

Yuri pushes down his pants first. He’d normally peel it all away in one quick go, but Victor always did it like this. Let the pants pool around his feet, and then wait for Yuri to step out of them. Yuri does this now. Yuri peels his underwear away second.

With his back turned to him he cannot see Victor’s reaction. Is he licking his lips? Does his chest rise in a barely there gasp? All he can do is feel the burn of his gaze. Yuri stomps off to the shower before he can allow Victor to react in a way that will affect him.

* * *

 

Victor has an enormous shower with dual heads, one on each end. It means that when he shampoos his hair, he doesn’t have to turn around. All he has to do is lean back to rinse his hair. It means that two people can share it without getting cold.

Yuri twists the copper colored fixtures all the way over to one side, and watches the bathroom become cloaked in steam.

Yuri steps into the shower, and begins it the way it would’ve began before Sochi. He washes his hair, and if he closes his eyes and doesn’t think about it too hard, the feeling of his own short clipped nails feel the same against his scalp. He washes his body, and he pretends that it’s larger, more adroit hands playing against his skin.

Yuri grabs his cock. He does it like Victor does it with his thumb and his forefinger. Yuri stares down the pristine, almost sterile looking tiles that line the shower floor, and gives himself two pumps in slow succession, just like Victor would.

The seconds drag on, and on. As Yuri works himself it becomes apparent that Victor isn’t joining him.

Yuri’s treatment of his body shifts with his ever increasing anger. Grazes across his nipples become hard pulls and pinches. He abandons the soft and maddening touch that Victor would use, and wraps his base around his cock and pumps furiously. How the hell can he keep asking himself over and over again, “what the fuck happened in Sochi?” When he was right fucking there?

Yuri becomes lost in the flick of his own wrist, the pressure of his hands, and his own anger. He allows noises to slip out of his mouth that he’d never made before. Not even when it was Victor wringing out every sensation he could from his body.

The question becomes, what does _he_ have that Yuri doesn’t have? He placed awfully. His technique was all over the place. When you shove bits of shining brilliance next to mediocrity next to raging and unapologetic failure, what’s left are the parts that are the strongest and most bitter: failure and mediocrity.

It’s not like they’re even fucking around. Yuri knows that he hasn’t called. He can see it in the way Victor’s face falls every time he checks his notifications. He can see it in the way that Victor stares at his phone when they’re out at a café just the four of them: Victor, Georgi, Mila and him. Why the fuck isn’t he enough?

Yuri stops the frantic motions of his hand. His cock is aching hard, and he’s been at it for some time, so why isn’t it enough?

Yuri coats his fingers in the thick viscous lubricant that Victor keeps in the shower. Yuri presses his fingers at his entrance, and does with them what Victor has never done for him. The first finger goes easily. It doesn’t feel _great_ , yet he still feels compelled to push forward. Yuri presses a second finger inside, but it won’t go past is own knuckle.

How fucking typical. He can’t get fucking Victor to pay attention to him. He can’t land the axel off the back counter, and his fucking body won’t even do what he wants when he’s trying to jerk off.  Yuri bears down on his fingers. He braces himself on the copper colored towel rack anchored to the side wall of the shower, but his body won’t yield.

The sound of the glass shower door rattling against the frame as it is opened barely registers. Yuri is too caught up with trying to make his body work the way he wants it to. However, the sound of Victor’s soft gasp is unmistakable.

Yuri spins round with his fingers still buried into place. He meets Victor’s gaze.

He longs for the day he elicits Victor’s wide watery eyed stare. He longs for the day he can bring about his strange smile that is simultaneously slack jawed and grinning from corner to corner. Today is not that day. Victor looks upon him with the same quiet fascination that he does at the rink, but now it’s not enough to know that Victor feels _something._ He wants to know what it is that Victor feels.

“Yuri,” Not Yura or Yurochka like usual.

“Took you long enough.” Yuri tacks on, “hag,” as an afterthought to hide the way his voice falters.

“It seems like you’re doing just fine without me Yuri.” Victor says. Only now does his expression change. There’s a small half smile in the corner of his mouth. It speaks volumes more than anything Victor has said to him recently.

Victor wraps his hand around his own cock. Yuri watches as he moves his hand up his cock, twists around the head, and moves his hand back down to the base in one fluid and seamless motion. Somehow that makes Yuri’s blood boil hotter than being left in the shower alone.

Yuri pulls his fingers out, and stares at Victor for a second. His hands ball up into tight fists and he can feel his nails dig into the skin. Everything trembles, and he doesn’t want Victor to see just how upset he is. So he lunges at Victor, and cages him against the tiled wall.

The positioning is awkward. Victor’s much taller than he is, and his attempt at intimidation seems moot. Victor towers over him. Victor still looks down upon him with half lidded eyes.

Yuri can’t handle it anymore, “what the fuck is wrong with you?”

Victor cups his face. He knows that it’s supposed to be tender, intimate even. In reality it’s patronizing. “Yuri, you’ll understand-“

“When I’m older?” Yuri spits. “Shut up.” Doesn’t Victor fucking get it? He’s the one that ground his ass on Victor’s dick in a crowded train. He’s the one that sucked Victor off one lazy afternoon after practice. Victor’s the one that never said, “stop.” He’s the one who’s been on pins and fucking needles since Sochi, watching as something thick and ugly loomed over Victor, something that he couldn’t divert or control.

“Yuri.”

“Shut up!” Yuri feels his hand connect with skin. He can hear the sharp _smack_ of his hand against Victor’s cheek. Although he knows he’s fucked up, the expression that he makes is so fucking satisfying. Finally, after weeks and weeks of waiting for a _fraction_ of what he saw in Sochi, he gets a reaction.

Victor moves quickly. He grabs his arm, and his body is pressed against the glass door for a fraction of a second. Then, Victor’s pushing him around so that he’s pressed against the cool wall of the shower. Water runs into his eyes and his nose, and he makes all kinds of ugly and undignified snorting noises as Victor holds him underneath the spray.

“Do you think that this will fix what’s wrong with me Yura?” Victor moves his arms so that they’re pinned up over his head. He trails his fingers down his back. Fucking finally. “I thought that too.” Yuri can feel his cock press against his ass, and on instinct he ruts back into it. “Then I thought that he could help me.”  Victor sighs into his ear. It’s long, and it’s filled with a thousand statements left unsaid...to someone that isn’t him.

Victor grazes his neck with his teeth, and bites down hard. Yuri keens into the touch. He wants more. He wants Victor to use him until every inch of his body stings. He wants to know that Victor is still capable of doing something, anything other than being this pathetic _thing_ that shows up at practice and goes through the motions without inspiration or direction.

“So, you wanna stop.” Yuri isn’t stupid. He could feel it in the way that Victor hesitated. He could feel it in the way that Victor stopped inviting him over. It was only a matter of time. Victor got bored easily. He burns through program themes, and choreography and costumes at a breakneck speed. The only reason it doesn’t show up as sloppy and disjointed is because he’s good enough to pull it all together and make it stick.

Yuri can feel the blunt head of his cock poke at his entrance. He can feel Victor move, and reach for more lubricant. “I don’t do a very good job of following through Yura. I know this.” He can hear the cap being undone. “But I’ll show you Yura, if I have to. If that’s what you want.” Victor releases his hands. Yuri feels his hand splay wide across his chest. He can feel pressure. “Do you want this Yura?”

“Of fucking course I do!” Yuri braces himself against the wall and pushes back against Victor. He can feel the hot burn of his cockhead pressing inside.

Victor pushes back. Inch by inch by inch until he’s seated completely inside.

Yuri feels like he’s being split in two, yet his body yields for Victor. Where he himself couldn’t get a second finger inside, Victor works his way in slowly. Makes him feel as if he should be grateful for every bit of searing pain that he induces.

“It’s not going to change anything.” Victor bites down again on the other side of his neck. Fuck if it won’t. Yuri’s showing up to practice tomorrow with the lowest cut v neck that he owns, and he’s tossing his last shred of discretion out the window.

Victor pushes his hips forward, and Yuri pushes back. The rhythm that they build is unbearably slow, with Victor barely rutting inside, and Yuri rising up to meet him before there’s anything to push back upon.

Yuri bites his lip so hard that it bruises, and grows fat against his own teeth, but he can’t let Victor know just how badly it burns. Victor is selfish, but he isn’t sadistic. Victor is selfish, and so he doesn’t quite understand what it is that he is and is not giving Yuri.

“It’s not going to change the way you feel Yuri.”

“Because you won’t fucking let it asshole.”  Yuri doesn’t want to listen to Victor project his own feelings onto him. He wants to hurt, and he wants to burn. He’s sick of Victor’s numbness leaking out and spilling onto everything that it touches. He’s sick of getting pulled down by it too. “Fucking fuck me,” he hisses through gritted teeth.

Victor’s pace quickens, but it’s nothing in comparison to know what he _could_ do. He fucks into him now in longer thrusts. He tugs at the roots of his hair while he leaves big ugly marks down his neck and his shoulder, but he doesn’t _pound_ into him. He doesn’t _use_ him.

Yuri fists his cock in his hand desperate to do anything that abates the burn. Yuri moves his hand faster because despite the onslaught of emotion, it isn’t enough. Although there’s no noise between them save for soft grunts and the slap of skin against skin, Yuri can’t help but hear Victor’s shitty voice echo in his mind, “it’s not going to change anything.”

So Yuri decides to make it change. He breaks away from Victor’s suffocating grasp. “I’m sick of fucking around Victor.” And pushes down on his shoulder.

Maybe it’s just another way of patronizing him. Maybe it’s because Victor wants it like this too. Whatever the reason, Victor sits down on the floor of the shower, and Yuri immediately sinks down onto his cock. Water from the shower’s stream goes everywhere, makes him feel like he’s constantly gasping for air. Yuri bites down onto Victor’s lip, and tugs.

Victor pulls on his hair. Victor pinches the tip of his cock.

Yuri bounces upon him with all the wild abandon that he’d wanted _Victor_ to fuck him with. Ever movement that he makes sends a thousand searing jolts of pain down his spine. The water hides the hot tears that leak from his eyes, and the fact that his nose runs.

Every action dries up the last remaining bits of sympathy and concern that he held for him.

“I’ll be better than you,” Yuri’s words would be more impactful if he didn’t keep interrupting himself with low moans and short animalistic grunts.

“Your body will change,” Victor’s words would be more impactful if they had any fire behind them, instead of the cool indifference that has become the norm.  

“I’ll surpass you.” It’s a lot of talk when he can’t even land the axel off the back counter, something that Yakov’s protégées are known for.

Yuri grits his teeth. He can feel his arm move before he can even consider what it is that he’s doing. Smacking Victor earlier felt good. It said so many things that he couldn’t articulate. Yuri rears his arm backwards, and smacks him hard.

Victor’s head turns in sharp recoil. His hair obscures his face, and his tone is soft. Not in the dry and disinterested way that he’s spoken every other thing that he’s said to Yuri tonight, but in a way that’s unfazed and dangerous. “You’ll be useless.” It’s a lot of talk, especially when Victor’s staring down the barrel of thirty, and Yuri’s seen him be in so much pain that he can barely move.

Yuri can feel his teeth clank against one another as Victor’s hand connects with his jaw. Yuri sees stars. Yuri feels like his brain bashes against the wall of his skull as his entire body recoils. Yuri can feel Victor’s dick twitch as he _finally_ takes him by the hips and thrusts into him hard.

Victor rolls them both to their sides, and he unceremoniously dumps Yuri to the floor pulling out. He steps out of the shower, and through the glass Yuri can see him reach for one of his impossibly fluffy white bath towels.

Victor was wrong. It changed everything. It is as if he finally has permission to not look up to him anymore. Like he finally has permission to not care about what happened in Sochi anymore.  Yuri takes his cock in his hand. He holds it just the way Victor would. His whole body aches. His whole body has been marked, but he comes into his hand in Victor’s shower alone.

 


End file.
